












































Songs of the Northland 
and Other Poems by 
Alison Brown 


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COPYRIGHT 1923 BY ALISON BROWN 


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To 

My Mother and Father 















ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


Grateful acknowledgment is due to the 
following for permission to use poems: 


Metropolitan Magazine 
The Vigilantes 
Sports Afield 
Duluth News Tribune 
Duluth Evening Herald 
American Poetry Magazine 
Oregon County Times Leader 
The War in Verse and Prose 
(edited by W. D. Eaton) 




THE NORTHLAND 




THE NORTHLAND 


I never knew until I tried to go, 

The mystery and enchantment of the North; 

The countless cords that draw me back although 
The cry is in my heart to venture forth. 

I never knew that calm bright stars could talk, 

Or rugged cliff, or rivulet, or hill; 

Or that the presence of majestic rock 
Could cast o’er me so mystical a spell. 

I never knew that pine trees, tall and gaunt, 

Could beckon with their branches to my heart; 

Or that the sighing winds had power to haunt 
And hold me with the magic of their art. 

I never knew that woodlands, snowy white, 

That ice-bound streams, or glimpse of glistening bay 

Could still a restless heart with vision bright,— 

The clear, cold picture of a winter day. 

I tried to go and thought that I was free 
To answer any voice that whispered, “Come,” 

But now I know the bonds that fasten me,— 

The Northland ever was and is my home. 


SOMETIMES AT NIGHT 


Sometimes at night when tender starlight glows, 
And suppliant pine trees lift their arms in prayer, 
I feel a presence that my spirit knows, 

And hear a voice, and dimly am aware 
That long ago, a million years before, 

I was a part of starlit sky and sea, 

Of dusky woods that edge the quiet shore, 

And winds that drift and lift and creep to me. 

As one who learned a language long ago, 

Finds memory wakeful at a passing word, 

So I recall a tongue I used to know, 

When starlight brings the song of hidden bird. 
And at the breathing of the fragrant night, 

My being thrills and gropes with eager hand; 
Forgotten phrases come to me aright, 

Some few sweet words I still can understand. 


THE NORTHERN SPRING 


Spring does not give to us her golden days, 

With gentle woods astir beneath her feet; 

She cannot come to us by flowered ways, 

Down fragrant lanes of apple-blossoms sweet. 

She wears for us no gown of living green, 

And only May can bring the homing bird, 

Yet Springtime comes,—I know for I have seen,— 

In gales of March her promises are heard. 

We watch, who live where winter’s sway is long, 

For harbingers unknown perhaps to you; 

The wind and rain that sing their cheerless song, 
Can bring our Springtime, clad in white and blue,— 
The blue that marks the open lake at last, 

The white of ice that grinds against the shore. 

One night we hear a great boat’s lonely blast, 

And know indeed that winter’s reign is o’er. 


STORM 


I was born for this,— 

The wild panting kiss 
Of breakers on a sandy shore; 

The swift and muffled flight 
Of clouds across the night, 

For this, and more. 

I was born to see 
The pine-tops tossing free, 
Triumphant, challenging, and black; 
To watch the flying foam 
On waters rushing home, 

And turning back. 

I was born akin 

To sea-gulls blowing in 

From out the darkness, undismayed; 

I shall learn the song 
Of stormy winds, and strong, 

Nor be afraid. 


AUTUMN 


There's a thrill and a stir in the bright air to-day, 
There’s a silvery whisper that will not be stilled; 

Ah! what would you do if you knew you should stay, 
But the innermost depths of your being were filled 
With a yearning and longing that s almost a cry, 
To be out in the woods where the gay gypsy queen, 
Enthroned 'neath the wide bending arch of the sky, 
Is passing the days of her brief splendid reign? 

Autumn, the gypsy queen! She has flung wide 
The folds of her scarlet and golden cloak; 

Bare is her head—there is nothing to hide 
The wealth of brown tresses as dusky as smoke, 
Tresses that fall like a glorious cape, 

Eyes that are soft as the eyes of a fawn, 

Lips that are stained by the berry and grape, 
Gathered when dewy and fresh in the dawn. 

I know a path by the bright river's edge,— 

This I will follow, as led by a call. 

Close to the water or high on the ledge, 

Arched o’er with trees in the glory of fall. 

Gladly I answer the silvery voice, 

Gladly I pay all the homage that’s due,— 

Your loyal subject I stand and rejoice, 

Beautiful Queen of the Autumn, in you. 


NORTHERN WOODS 


Up home I know the woods are white and still. 
The pines are dark against the winter sky; 

The ruddy glow that lingers o’er the hill 
Will fade and brighten, faint and softly die. 

I hear the sighing winter night winds blow 
And from the swaying branches gently falls 
A fairy veil of drifting, sifting snow, 

All down the dimness of the forest halls. 

I cannot help but dream and wonder when 
I’ll see the northern woods for which I long; 
When I shall follow snowy trails again, 

And listen to the forest’s slumber song. 


A-GYPSYING 


Let’s go a-gypsying, you and I, 

Deep in the woods is a sun-flecked trail; 

The birch trees point to a cloudless sky, 

And beckon us on to the top of the hill. 

I hear a bird-note, calling, calling, 

Sweet as the echo that answers a flute; 

I see a brown leaf, falling, falling, 

I breathe the fragrance of flower and fruit. 

Cool and crisp is the autumn air, 

Stirred by a wandering gypsy breeze; 

Hark, is it Autumn herself I hear, 

Or just the whisper of leafy trees? 

Sunlight and color glisten, glisten, 

Shadows creep over the cool, sweet ground; 

What shall we hear if we listen, listen? 

Stirrings so soft that they scarce are sound. 

Here is a place for a gypsy fire, 

Where the bright stream is clear and still; 

Watch the thin smoke rise high, and higher, 

And hang in the air like a silver veil. 

Now do you see it, gleaming, gleaming? 

Rest till the glow of the fire is gone. 

We must come back from our dreaming, dreaming, 
See, little comrade, the trail leads on. 


THE PROMISE 


I promised to make you a song to-day, 

And I did not know that my words were bold, 

For a poem will come of itself they say 

When the sky is blue and the sunlight gold. 

I thought I had only to feel in tune 
With the warmth and light and love of June. 

I had yet to learn what the fate may be 
Of a songster over-confident. 

For June played many a trick on me, 

And lured me away with her merriment. 

She showed me her treasure hoard, and then 
She left me alone with an eager pen. 

I sought to pattern the river’s song, 

The flutter of wind in the grasses deep, 

But the spell of the woods was far too strong, 
And I drowsed away to the edge of sleep. 

I thrilled to the call of an unseen bird, 

But it died ere I captured a single word. 

I caught the scent of a hidden rose, 

And hired a dusty bee for guide; 

But he led me away where the berry glows 
On a swinging branch at the river side. 

I had not meant that the thought of food 
Should shatter the charm of my solitude. 


I promised to make you a song to-day, 

But June was laughing at me the while. 
And never was one so led astray 

By the gold and blue of her winsome smile. 
A humbler, wiser poet, I 

Have learned ‘tis safer to say, ‘Til try.” 


SKATING 

Far up the sky the February moon 
Rides cold and clear; 

The moonlight floods the distant purple hills 
That climb into the night, 

White patched with snow. 

There is no need for little twinkling lights 
That overhead 

Are strung like jewels, orange, red and blue, 

To make a fairy ring about the darkness. 

Moonlight is enough. 

Within the circle, on the ice below, 

Uncounted rhythmic figures dart 
And bend and sway to secret music. 

Cheeks are stung to scarlet by the wind, 

And the warm blood beats and throbs 
In tingling veins. 

Above the merry shouts and laughing cries 
I hear the clash and cut of shining blades, 

The ring of steel on smooth and glittering ice. 

One moment, out of reach 

Of that swift stream and the unending whirl, 

I stop to rest. 

Lifting my eyes I watch the silent hills 
Half lost in night. 

And city lights that softly gleam from out the dark. 
The peace of winter stars is on me. 

Half I forget the clangor and the noise 
Until the keen night air 
Sweeps o’er me like a wave, 

And with the wave I join the moving stream again. 
















American Legion 

David Wisted Post No. 28 

Duluth, Minn. 


November 20, 1923. 

Miss Alison Brown, 

2102 Woodland Ave., 

Duluth, Minn. 

My Dear Miss Brown:- 

The David Wisted Post No. 28, of the American 
Legion, wishes to express to you its appreciation and 
favorable commendation of the work so well per¬ 
formed in the writing of your war poems. 

Great victories are not won upon the battlefield 
alone, and such works as yours played their impor¬ 
tant part, cheering those at home and inspiring to 
courage and high character those who were so 
fortunate as to acquire your poems “over there.” 

It is a real pleasure to welcome to our too 
meager supply of really good war poetry, this 
beautiful addition; truly American in spirit and 
typifying the outstanding qualities and emotions of 
our Nation in time of stress. 

Very truly yours, 

DAVID WISTED POST NO. 28. 

By Warren S. Jamar. _ 

Warren S. Jamar, Commander. 





POEMS OF THE WAR 


SINCE YOU WENT AWAY 


Since you went away every gay sailor lad, 

Every khaki-clad soldier I see, 

Has a place in my heart and a share in my thoughts, 
And belongs just a little to me. 

He’s a comrade of yours and is bearing his share 
Of the burden that rests upon you; 

Both are doing the task which a nation has set 
For its glorious manhood to do. 

Since you went away I have entered within 
A sisterhood—mystic and great— 

Of women who’ve learned the great lesson, to give, 
And are learning another, to wait. 

But I strive like the rest not to doubt or to fear, 

To murmur or sigh or complain, 

But to trust in His might and to know in His eyes 
That the sacrifice cannot be vain. 

Since you went away every fold of the flag 
Has a message that’s tender and true; 

It has always meant liberty, freedom, and right, 

It now means my country—and you. 

Your honor is part of the deep azure field, 

Your courage of each crimson bar, 

And the soul of you, shining, resplendent, and clear, 
Is a part of each beautiful star. 


A MOTHER’S PRAYER 


Help me to send my boy away 
Without a tear; 

Oh, help my lips to bravely say 
“Have courage, dear.” 

And may they frame for him a cheery smile 
From out my heart; 

Oh, give me strength and faith the while 
I watch my boy depart. 

Help me to bravely wave my hand 
In last farewell; 

Give him those things to understand 
My heart would tell. 

Help me to keep my courage clear 
That he may know 

I banish every doubt and fear, 

And bid him go. 


THE VICTORY 


Somewhere in France a pathway ’cross the sky 
Was hallowed by a single glorious flight; 

The whispering winds blow gently, softly by, 

The quiet stars a vigil keep at night, 

Because of one, a gallant fighting lad, 

A wounded eaglet, quivering for breath; 

’Twould mar his triumph if the world were sad,— 
He snatched a priceless victory from Death. 

Assailed in air by hostile birds of war, 

Who sought to kill and thought their purpose won 
They left a body, broken, wounded sore, 

A heart that scorned release till work was done; 

A heart that never dreamed of praise or fame, 

That simply said, “My courage shall not bend. 

To be a soldier worthy of the name, 

I must be loyal, faithful to the end.” 

Perhaps the upward way was shining, fair, 

And parted clouds revealed a radiant day; 

He may have longed to rest, to linger there, 

And yet he turned his tired eyes away, 

And braced his body for the homeward flight,— 
Perhaps he prayed the passing might be brief. 

There are no vanquished in the cause for Right,— 
Though dead he bore his message to his chief. 


(An incident of the war. An American aviator, sent after valuable 
information, was attacked by hostile air planes. Knowing he could not 
get back to the American lines before he died, he recorded the data in 
his notebook and headed for home. His machine landed safely, but 
the young soldier was found dead.) 


THEY SHALL NOT PASS 
Used by the Vigilantes 

They shall not pass 

While Britain’s sons draw breath, 

While strength is theirs to strike with shining sword. 
They shall not pass, 

Except they pass to Death,— 

For British fighting men have pledged their word. 

They shall not pass, 

For France knows no defeat, 

Nor hesitates to nobly pay the price. 

They shall not pass 

Till brave hearts cease to beat, 

And none shall stand to fall in sacrifice. 

They shall not pass,— 

America will stand 

As long as lips can answer her, “I come.” 

They shall not pass 

To strike the lov-ed land 

That Freedom’s children rise to call their home. 


IF EVER TIME SHALL COME 

Dedicated to the American Red’Cross and Written by 
Request for the Christmas Roll Call of 1918. 

I f ever time shall come when I can see 
A crimson cross against a field of white, 

And fail to hear the words it speaks to me, 

Lord, pierce my spirit with the sword of Light. 

And let me glimpse the vision once again. 

For Jesus* sake a cup of water given, 

And in His name relief from weary pain, 

And mercy, tender, snowy-winged from Heaven. 

And where it hovers o’er the battle line, 

The symbol of a mighty mother’s care, 

May I not say the crimson cross is mine, 

If I have helped to place its banner there? 


WHEN THEY COME BACK 
Used by the Vigilantes 

They will come back, America’s brave sons, 

From war-torn fields when victory and peace 
Have stilled the angry thunder of the guns, 

And brought to suffering hearts a quick release. 
They will come back from anguish deep and strife, 
From sights and sounds that only they could know, 
Back to the fullness of a richer life— 

The great reward because they chose to go. 

They will have felt the flames of cleansing fires, 
Have passed the tests that try the hearts of men; 
Have learned in sacrifice of dear desires, 

That souls can rise to splendid heights again. 

They will have proved that wrong can hold no sway, 
Have seen the darkness change to radiant light; 
Have felt the Presence, “Lo—with you alway,” 
And heard His voice in silences at night. 

And we who wait and pray for them at home, 

May one great prayer in soul and spirit burn; 

That we may keep the faith until they come, 

Be not unworthy of a bright return. 

A prayer expressed in every deed and thought. 

In every task of willing heart and hand, 

A purpose out of pure desire wrought,— 

To learn of them and some day understand. 


AMERICA WILL NOT FORGET 


When in your hands the sword was thrust, 

And for your feet a path was set, 

You bravely kept the holy trust,— 

America will not forget. 

You laid the years of youth away, 

The vision fair, the splendid dream; 

Became strong men in one brief day, 

To check the flow of that dark stream 

That grimly threatened every shore, 

That menaced all that life holds dear,— 

The tide of cruel, relentless war, 

The waves of darkness, dread, and fear. 

Yours was the highest, noblest pledge,— 

Each wound you bear the price you paid; 

Each livid scar the honor badge 
Of heroes of the Great Crusade. 

May each for whom your loss is gain, 

Hold in his heart the sacred debt, 

That you may know ’twas not in vain,— 

America will not forget. 

Written for “The Come-Back,” the newspaper 
published by and for the soldier-patients of Walter 
Reed General Hospital, Washington, D. C. 


ARLINGTON 


Spirit of brooding peace, 

And the calm of unbroken rest,— 

Sleep that is deep as the earth 

That has gathered them close to her breast. 

Spent is the fury of war, 

And silent the thundering guns,— 

Only the quiet of dreams 
For America’s fallen sons. 

Once where the battle flags waved 
O’er the shining and gallant lines, 

Are the snowy branches of blossoming trees, 

And the arms of the Southern pines. 

Once o’er their clustered tents 
The mellowing sunlight shone; 

But now it glistens on marble shaft, 

And the whiteness of simple stone. 

Spirit of brooding peace, 

And the hush of the last long rest,— 

Memories green as the grass 

That the feet of the angels have pressed. 

Written for the Memorial Day number of “The 
Come-Back,’’ Walter Reed General Hospital, Wash¬ 
ington, D. C. 


OTHER POEMS 










LIFE 


A little while our paths lay side by side, 

Then grew apart; 

But ere I watched the sunny trails divide, 
Within my heart 

I learned to call you friend, in that one hour, 
And as I wait, 

Feel not that time nor miles of space have power 
To separate. 

And if I go my way, sometimes alone, 

No waiting’s loss; 

Somewhere again, the time to be God’s own, 

All trails must cross. 


MY GARDEN 


I know a place where the sun-light falls,' 

Mellow and soft and clear, 

Where the vines creep close to the low gray walls, 
And a silver bird-note sweetly calls, 

And the breezes stop to hear, 

A place where the birdlings love to nest, 

And an azure sky bends near. 

Dear little corner where the flowers grow 
In the mingling light and shade; 

The tall green grasses blow and blow, 

The ground is white with the daisies’ snow, 

That the falling petals made; 

And over all the magic charm 
Of the summer day is laid. 

Dear little shelter when the dim, cool night 
Has banished the quiv’ring heat; 

The stars hang low with a silvery light, 

Blessing the hours before their flight 
When the dark and the dawning meet; 

The pale moths flutter and find their way 
To the hearts of the roses sweet. 

Dear little garden, there are mem’ries fair 
That are not for the world to see; 

They sprang from your midst in the golden air 
That is sweet with the fragrance of flowers rare, 
But they grow in the heart of me; 

And they tell me to wait in the joy that was 
For the joy that is yet to be. 


HOMING 


O little window, frame for me 
A sunset sky and a bit o‘ sea, 

The silver glimmer of early stars, 

A homing vessel with burnished spars. 

Promise me as I fling you wide, 

The welcome cool of the eventide; 

No sudden murmur of rising gales, 

But wind awhisper in homing sails. 

O little window, bear my light, 

A gleam of gold in the coming night; 

I set it here in your slender frame, 

And breathe a prayer that is just a name. 


SONNET 


I would see something beautiful each day. 

And search for it in dear familiar things,— 

The crimson banner that the sunset flings, 

A lonely sailboat on the quiet bay. 

For Beauty loves to walk the common way, 

And folds to rest her trembling fairy wings; 

And so I worship where a mother sings, 

And wonder at a little child in play. 

And I love Friendship's smile that never dies, 

Blue wreathes of smoke that curl from my own 
A windy tree upon a hill, the light 
Of trust within a faithful collie’s eyes, 

A winding road, a slender gleaming spire,— 
And then, I would see Beauty in the night. 


O LITTLE WOODLAND CABIN 


0 little woodland cabin where the sunlight drifted down, 

Through leaves of birch and poplar and among the branches brown, 
And pine trees rose in grandeur toward a blue and cloudless sky, 

0 little cabin, had we known ’twould be a last good-by! 

We would have trod with quiet steps the rough boards of your floor, 
And closed with fait’ring hands and wistful eyes your rustic door; 
We would have felt our hearts ache as we turned away to go, 

But little cabin in the woods, we did not, could not know. 

We would have drunk the beauty of that peaceful summer scene,— 
The somber rocks, the vivid banks, the river in between; 

We would have stopped to listen as it wound its way along, 

And stilled our very heart beats at the white throat sparrow’s song. 

We would have held the fragrance of the cedars and the pines, 

The sweetness of the flowers and the cool, entangling vines. 

0 little woodland cabin, all we have are only dreams, 

We said good-by and left you to the fury of the flames. 


THE FRUIT SHOP 


If I have breakfast’d early, and unless the weather bars, 

I scorn the swaying crowds that fill the clanging trolley cars, 
To join the merry walk-to-works, and for a moment stop 
Before the sunny windows of Italian Michael’s shop. 

In winter Michael rises oftentimes before it’s light, 

To polish ruddy apples on his apron, snowy white; 

And ere the milk carts rattle down the dim and quiet street, 

His windows are in order, and his little shop is neat. 

And anyone will linger if his eyes shall once behold 
The oranges that rise in shining pyramids of gold, 

The rows of paler grape fruit, and brown walnuts in a heap, 
Which Michael says are “verra nice,” and oh, so “verra cheep." 
In summer there’s an awning when the sun has mounted high, 
And Michael’s stand is underneath to tempt the passer-by. 

I love the rhyme and color of his tarlatan covered wares, 

The pleasant ripe bananas, and the mellow sunny pears; 

The fragrant peaches only pale when near the brighter sheen 
Of cherries red, or jeweled grapes all amethyst and green. 

I like it best when Michael stands with brooding smile, and eyes 
That seem to dream of Italy and blue Italian skies. 


TO A COLLIE DOG 


You’re a bright patch of gold on the grass at my feet, 

Just the color of sunlight aglint on the wheat, 

And your collar and breast are as soft as the down, 

And white as a cloud by the summer wind blown, 

And your great eyes are wistful and shining and brown, 
Sandy. 

You come of an ancestry noble and brave, 

From the land of the heather and rock-cliff and wave. 
Your sires have battled with sleet, wind, and snow, 

On Scotland’s bleak hills and in valleys below, 

While they guarded their flocks from the treacherous foe, 
Sandy. 

Thence comes the look in your brave, splendid eyes, 

With their vision that’s keen as the arrow that flies. 
You’ve a right to your bearing of grandeur and grace, 

And the lift of your head and your serious face, 

For you come of a lofty and honorable race, 

Sandy. 

What are you thinking of, silent and staid, 

That Life weaves a pattern of sunlight and shade? 

Or just that the grass makes a cool, green nest, 

When the shadows are long from the sun in the west,— 

A place where ’tis wonderfully pleasant to rest, 

Sandy ? 

The light that shines out from your eyes is a part 
Of the unwavering faith and the trust in your heart. 

’Twere a loss to the world if that clear light should fade, 
Or your trust by an unworthy act be betrayed, 

For in faith and in trust is its saving laid, 

Sandy. 


UNDERSTANDING 


You have asked of me a song,— 

I can do no less 

Than use my broken tools, and trust 
Your love and gentleness 
To see the shining thing I’d build 
If faltering hands were strong, 

And if the eyes had never known 
How dark the night and long. 

But yet, the sorrow that has dimmed 
My tools that gleamed so bright, 
Has taught your heart the way to sing 
The poorest song aright. 


LIGHTS 


All lights I love, but better than the rest, 

The little lights,—the first pale star that gleams 
When sunset trails her scarf across the West, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to dreams. 

Glad lights, but oh, the lonely ones that cling 
To slender masts that lose themselves in gray, 
Where phantom sailboats at their moorings swing, 
On the dark waters of the quiet bay. 

Street lights in fog, and river lights, and flame, 
Bright paper lanterns swaying in the breeze, 
And far-off moving lights without a name, 

White fireflies in dusky cedar trees. 

Some lights uncertain are, they waver so,— 

Poor fickle hearts,—but oh, steadfast and true, 
One little light that I have come to know, 
Guiding my steps at nightfall, home to you. 


MY CHUM 


Dear chum, to build a little song for you, 

I need no shining tools and craftsman’s art; 

I hold the steady taper of our love 
And search the secret places of my heart. 

And there I find a girlhood dream we made, 
As golden now as in the years gone by; 

I find a youthful promise, stronger grown, 

A little tear, a little smile, a sigh. 

And so of these I fashion friendship’s lay,— 
The world is not its judge, but only you; 
Your heart will know if I have builded right, 
And answer if my little song rings true. 


FOR MOTHER'S DAY 


Each perfect gift is sent us from above, 

God's sweetest gift, a mother’s changeless love,— 

It is so free,—like sunshine and the showers,— 

We never know the treasure that is ours, 

Until the darkness comes, and storms beat down our flowers. 

Sometimes whole days will pass, 

We never see the wonder of the grass, 

Nor thank Him for the shade 
By whispering branches made. 

The false lights of our world,—they beckon so,— 

Our little lamp of gratitude burns low. 

May we not miss because our eyes are dim, 

The mother love that fills life to its brim, 

Of all His perfect gifts it tells us most of Him. 











FOR THE CHILDREN 













A FAIRY WISH 


Now I have made a fairy wish, 

And if that wish comes true, 

Oh, Jacky Frost, on autumn nights 
I ’ll paint the leaves with you. 

It must be pleasant in the woods, 

So cold and clear and bright, 

With just a shining autumn moon 
And silver stars for light. 

I’ll watch the baby rabbits run, 

All furry, soft, and brown; 

And for the little squirrels I’ll send 
The chestnuts tumbling down. 

And when we’ve splashed the pretty leaves 
With gold and brown and red, 

We’ll steal to where the children lie 
All cuddled warm in bed. 

And on each glist’ning window pane, 

A fairy picture make, 

To please the little girls and boys, 

At morning, when they wake. 


THE LAKE 


The lake creeps in with shining feet, 
And where it meets the land, 

It makes a curving line of blue, 

For miles along the sand. 

Like scallops on a lady’s gown,— 
Or if the bright waves race, 

They sew a dainty ruffle there 
Of white and silver lace. 


JOAN OF ARC 

The story says whenever France goes proudly forth to war, 

The spirit of a little maid is ever hovering o’er 
To lead her gallant armies as she led them long ago, 

When France lay crushed and broken by the onslaught of the foe. 

The spirit of a little maid who, resting from her play, 

Heard softly spoken voices that beckoned her away; 

And saw a wondrous vision fair shine forth in radiance, 

To bring to her the message, “Joan of Arc, save France!” 

“Save France! Thou art the one in whom is placed the holy trust, 
Joan the Maid, thou art the one to go, and go thou must.” 

So clad in suit of gleaming steel, the armour of a knight, 

She rode beneath the lilies of her flowing standard bright. 

And so the story whispers that her spirit still lives on, 

That still it leads her armies when a cause is to be won. 

Of all the rest to think a little peasant maid should be 
The one whom God had chosen to bring France victory. 


SIR GALAHAD 


Of all King Arthur’s Table Round 
The noblest and the best 
Was Galahad, the pure in heart, 

The Hero of the Quest. 

By him the vacant seat was filled, 

And by his hand was drawn 
The mystic sword that others could 
Not loosen from the stone. 

And when the room was filled with light, 
So bright they scarce could see, 

His ears heard softly, “Galahad,” 

“O follow, follow me.” 

So pure in heart, so free from sin, 

’Twas sure he could not fail 
To see revealed before his eyes 
The mystery of the Grail. 


THE SPRINGTIME IS A LITTLE CHILD 


The Springtime is a little child, 

And just my age, I know; 

Lve never seen her though I’ve looked 
Where all the flowers grow. 

But I can listen to her voice 
When plumy lilacs blow. 

I think her dress is pale and soft, 

Like little clouds at night; 

Her smile makes the buttercups 
And dandelions bright. 

And where she walks the daisies are 
Her foot-steps, pink and white. 


IN OTHER LANDS 


Little folks in other lands, 

Far away from you and me, 

Stretch their little pleading hands 
Out across the wide gray sea. 

They are tiny Jean, and Claire, 
Michael, Joseph, and Marie. 

They are where the Great War swept, 
Like a dark and angry wave; 

They are where the Famine crept, 
Still it creeps, but we can save, 

If we feed these little ones, 

Patient, pleading, and so brave. 



















































THE 

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